Eighteen years ago today I was nesting.
On this day, in May 2002, it was my first born’s due date. Of course, he kept me guessing by not arriving on time, and so I kept myself distracted by cleaning. I was energised by anticipation, and HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadotropin,) the pregnancy hormone that was riding high in my body, telling me I had a life form growing inside me, and that I needed to build a nest for it. So, I did exactly that. I had prepped the nursery already, so I turned to sanitation to keep me sane and the hormones satisfied. Cupboards were emptied, the toaster was upturned, the dog was washed, (to her dismay.) Everything would be perfect for the arrival of my little prince, (or princess.)
And so today it is fitting that history has repeated itself. D & I started the morning with what was meant to be a regular weekend clean. But then D presented me with a new toy. A cordless power tool with a nylon scrubbing brush attachment. I have never used a scrubbing brush with the competency of a power drill before. I discover today that it is slightly addicting. Start polishing one section of grout in the shower, and the rest of the bathroom starts hollering for attention. Armed in blue rubber gloves, bathroom spray in one hand, power scrubber in the other, I was an unstoppable cleaning machine. Now that the lion’s share of the day has past, we have sparkling bathrooms, a pristine kitchen, shiny plug holes that say innocently Grime? What grime?
Once into the deep cleaning state of mind, it’s hard to stop. Next up was soaking. A few months ago, D got a new gizmo called a Sonic Soak, a small device designed to clean just about anything you want with ultrasounds. Simply place the device in the water with the objects to be cleaned and leave it running for a few minutes to clean everything. I’ve sonic soaked silver jewellery, kids toys, the dog’s lead. It’s amazing what 10 years of embedded gunk looks like at the bottom of a soaking bucket. Ok, not amazing, disgusting. Since we soaked A’s rag doll a few weeks ago, we now believe that the doll’s dirt was the main cause of her acne, because she sleeps with the doll by her face every night. If that’s not gross enough, I could describe what came out of the dog’s lead, but I don’t think I will. Today I got into soaking anything I own that is made of white fabric. Shove the clothing into a large bowl with a generous scoop of Oxy, and hey presto, overnight whites! Similar to the power scrubbing experience, it’s too easy to get carried away, because after a selection of socks and bras are revived to a brilliant white, the others look mildly grey and neglected. And thus, a soaker’s work is never done.
But I am done for today, done cleaning anyway. I must now prepare for the big birthday tomorrow. My boy turns eighteen. And eighteen years ago today, after the Big HCG-invoked Clean, I went to my usual Friday night yoga class in Soho (London) and felt my first contraction whilst lying in sivasana, as the practice concluded. Is this labour? I thought? If so, the pain’s not so bad. How wrong I was.
I took myself off for a solitary walk in Green Park, labouring, breathing, appreciating the majestic beauty that the unique city offers. Later that night, the midwife came round to the apartment, for I had planned a home birth, and by 3.30am the following morning my son was born. I had chosen to wait to find out the gender. When he was finally ‘out’ and in full view, instead of the usual announcement of It’s a boy! I exclaimed “It’s a Ben!” He was named after the great bell inside the famous clock in Westminster. As I had laboured through the night, with excruciating contractions, without painkillers, Big Ben was there with me. Chiming deeply, every 15 minutes, through the warm London air, encouraging me to keep going. You can do this! This baby will be worth the pain! And he was. He was perfect. And he still is, to me.
And so tomorrow, we will celebrate my baby’s coming of age. We will listen to messages from friends and family and look through old photos and I’ll get all teary, and say stuff like I can’t believe you’re eighteen! Where did that time go?! Its’ such a cliché, until you live it, and realise why everyone who has said it before you says it at all.
And I will hug him, and love him, and tell him how happy I am to have him home, safe in the nest. And then of course, I will wake up the following morning, and remember that he is a grown man, no longer my baby, and he won’t being staying in this nest for very much longer.
